“A journey is time suspended.” – Louis L’Amour
AND THERE I WAS . . . .
The last few weeks have been onerous and nerve-racking, but I felt it was coming to an end. On Saturday I had made my casserole for the church potluck and attended that Sunday. I had also had a toothache and ergo made an appointment for today—all is well there.
But as I sat on the sofa last night and called up my recorded list of movies I chose an Esther Williams movie, Bathing Beauty, to watch. It was made in 1944, two years before I was even born. And it had all the beautiful technicolor flash, and swimming scenes, and dancing and singing that I came to love.
BUT, the eeriest thing of all took place in one scene where Esther approached the pool, prepared to take off her robe, and voilá, there she was in her bright, neon pink bathing suit. Well, it was a flashback of great proportions. Apparently that color stuck around in the fashion scene or made a comeback when I was about 6.
I was immediately mentally transported to the sidewalk in front of our ancient apartment house. There I stood in my mind’s eye, in the summer heat wearing my facsimile of Esther’s swimsuit.
Folks, let me tell you—it was swell, for all the emotions came too, and I could not have felt any more important that summer if I had been Esther. My mother had bought me a new suit as we were headed for the beach—Daytona to be exact, and this would be my first time to see or dip my toe into the Atlantic. Boy, “excitement” isn’t a word that even begins to tell how elated I was! I was about to take a journey.
And, in my excitement I had donned my suit and was walking around telling everyone, even a couple of nearby local businesses just where I was headed—while wearing my suit.
Now, let me clarify about this bathing suit. It was pink like Esther’s . . . on the front. And in the back it was a neon lime green. I looked electric the colors were so loud, but that didn’t matter for I was beach-bound.
Most children don’t wander very far from home, in their bathing suits, to enter nearby business establishments. To be fair, these places were like a second home to me. One was an insurance company, and the other was a printing establishment—everyone there knew my folks and me. And since they knew me, they were not surprised that I had my suit on early in the day that we were slated to depart.
And so I went on to tell all where I was headed and couldn’t have felt more beautiful had I been Queen of Sheba, or Marie Antoinette or Coco Chanel. After all I had a garish, multi-colored suit and I was going away on a journey.
We made it to the beach, and I was in awe of the Atlantic. I kept thinking (after seeing maps of Florida) that we were literally going to the edge of the world. We were, at least the edge of my world, North America. And I must have felt like explorers of yore when I faced the sea, thinking that if I floated out just a tad too far I might see a sign bearing the words: hic sunt dracones, meaning “dangerous or unexplored territories, in imitation of a medieval practice of putting illustrations of dragons, sea monsters and other mythological creatures on uncharted areas of maps where potential dangers were thought to exist."*
More memories drifted back—as I lolled on the sofa . . . the smell of salt air, my first shrimp that I can remember, the sun, the garish night lights on what was then a boardwalk and arcade strip, the small bungalo we stayed in that week, the sunsets, the smells of food purveyors on the beach front . . . it all came back. Of course it would this was my first big journey, of course I would remember it.
And so it happened once again in my reverie—there I stood, in my mind’s eye yet again, on the edge of my world, gloriously clad in my hot pink and chartreuse bathing suit. Thanks, Esther, for the reminder.